


This didn't go as planned

by suddenrain



Series: Written on the spot [1]
Category: Blur (Band), Suede (Band)
Genre: F/M, M/M, Time Travel, also: written on the spot, this is my favorite trope i use it too much
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-11-30
Updated: 2020-11-30
Packaged: 2021-03-10 02:28:25
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,026
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27806824
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/suddenrain/pseuds/suddenrain
Summary: Damon changes the course of events.Note: I'm trying out a new process. I am a lazy perfectionist with a short attention span, so... I haven't started a fic in ages, and I never ever finish my fics.So here's the exercise: instead of spending ages thinking about a plot, then doing pointless research, then painstakingly writing a chapter full of weird metaphors, then translating it, then checking for mistakes and other stuff, then pasting it here... and doing that all over again for the next chapter if I'm motivated enough... I'm going to type whatever, directly here. Based on a random plot idea that I like, and keeping the modifications minimal. I'll see where it takes me. The result will probably not be so great but at least I'll have created something!
Series: Written on the spot [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2034547
Kudos: 5





	This didn't go as planned

  


  


Damon sipped on his chocolate, looking pensively from the window of the café. He had had a lovely, if uneventful day, most of it spent sitting here alone, enveloped in the pyre of autumn, looking at people and spotting parakeets. Now the sun was setting, and the dusk was pouring its disquieting ash on the streets of London, making them look less and less civilized as the minutes went by. In contrast, the shop windows, floating squares of harsh light of subtly varying hues of yellow and white, felt both artificial and safe. He sighed as a strange melancholy overtook his chest like a cold, his restless fingers dog-earing the pages of the open Moleskine notebook in front of him. He hadn't managed to finish as many lyrics as he had hoped today. Well, his mind had been elsewhere. He had thought of the past.

  


He thought he had already been over this spiky mess, his past, more than he had wanted, and that he was supposed to be going forward from now on. But the memories insisted on rolling around like tumbleweeds, and lately, almost anything could take him back. The chaotic nature of these visions was immensely frustrating. There were just flashes, bundle of patterns, lost places, fuzzy smiles and echoeing voices, that didn't make much more sense than a dream you have just woken up from. But the feelings were there, deep like glowing scars, euphoria, profound sadness, mild unease, and it all felt like a riddle. He had crossed paths with so many people in his life, often without giving them much more than an indifferent glance or a compulsory grin, depending on the circumstances. Were they all coming back to haunt him now, and demand his attention?

  


He much preferred the tamed images and narratives that came to him whenever he laid his eyes on very familiar faces he hadn't seen in a while. It was almost like reading a gossipy music magazine from back then: "Damon Albarn met such and such at a party. He said this and that about them. Oh, such great pals they seemed to be". Very straight-forward, really. That had happened to him earlier today, as a matter of fact. He had instantly recognized the lithe silhouette of Brett Anderson as it had walked past the café. He was wearing all black, of course, except for his tote bag, and looked dashing, if slightly scrawny. He swore the fucker had seen him wave at him, but had decided to ignore him and pick up his pace. Damon had hoped they could have had a cordial chat, and that perhaps he could have gotten some news about Justine from his old rival, as he believed he was still in touch with her. Oh, well. If Brett was that bitter of an individual, maybe he wasn't someone Damon wanted to talk to. Still, he wondered what face the snobbish twat would make if he ever asked him if he fancied doing his pound shop Bowie wail on a Gorillaz track. That would certainly be a laugh.

  


His drink finished, he got up and left the café. As the humid breeze cooled his cheeks, he felt like the only thing that was preventing his body from dissolving into the evening was his heavy coat, making him feel tethered, delineated, but constrained to a tired and clammy form. He wasn't very far from his house. He always felt bewitched by dimly lit streets, so he took his time, enjoying dark shuddering trees, old brick walls and the suspension of time. Suddenly his ears pricked at a familiar sound coming in waves from a back alley. He noticed that a queue was forming in front of a little pub he hadn't noticed before - The Blue Eagle, the sign said in big blocky letters - and Step On by The Happy Mondays was reverberating inside its walls. He took a few steps closer and looked around. The people gathered there were all scruffy art school teens in anachronic baggy trousers, mimicking styles that matched the retro music. This sight made Damon roll his eyes a bit. Couldn't the young generation stick to its own aesthetic? It did feel flattering in a way, but the irony was that he would stick out like a sore thumb in this place, all because he was too old, and thus not entitled to enjoying his own past. His wrinkles would simply ruin the uber-cool indie party. This whiny thought made him chuckle. He really was becoming a grumpy old man, wasn't he.

  


'Oi! Damon!'

  


A young lad with an awful brown floppy bowlcut and a face covered in freckles walked up to him, all smiles. Well, it looked like the art kids would accept him in their tribe after all. He wasn't just any regular grumpy old man, he was a famous one! He quickly put on his amicable 'meeting the fans' smile and braced himself for the usual questions.

  


'I thought you'd never come! Bob told me the set is starting soon. The chick is so hot, you won't believe your eyes, man.'

  


Oh, great. A nutcase.

  


'Sorry, I don't think... Actually, no, I know I don't know you.'

  


This didn't seem to phase the man.

  


'Haha. Are you high? Oh, have you got any E's, by the way?'

  


'I don't-'

  


'Hey, see the bloke smoking in the dark corner over there? That's her boyfriend, I think. He's the singer of the band. They're brilliant, really. Quite camp though. Well, I'm sure you'll make up your own mind.'

  


Damon turned to the man this weird stranger was telling him about, hoping this wasn't a trick to mug him. He looked... well he looked exactly like Brett Anderson, only about thirty years younger. Looking all goth, his fag hanging from thin lips. Damon's head was starting to spin a little. This was getting far too retro for his tastes.

  


'Um. What's his name, then?' he managed to ask in a croaky voice, still staring at the lookalike.

  


'Oh. I think it's...Rhett or Brett or something. Some stupid name like that. So, you're coming in or what?'

  


  


  


  


  



End file.
